Aurora Borealis
by cmgacrux
Summary: “I want to have you,” she breathes against his lips, her eyes velvetbrown and emberwarm. Sparrabeth


Disclaimer: Don't own them.

A/N: The story is dedicated to my dear friend djarum99.

Feedback is appreciated.

_Aurora Borealis_

_by_

_Claudia M. Gacrux_

_----------------_

I

_Luxuria_

_----------------_

Her teeth chatter as the patched sails tremble overhead. Sailing across the Northern Hemisphere has proven to be far more difficult than she thought. Up north the wind tastes of ice and sea-salt tears, the frosty hyperbola of land glints pristinely against the sapphire horizon, and the sense of abandon is particularly overwhelming. Perhaps the proximity of the North Pole, combined with Gibbs's firm belief that an object's axial tilt is always ninety degrees or less, makes her wonder whether or not she is still the center of Will's universe. Somehow he seems different, and she is almost certain she can sense a change in him, see the worry shadow his face more often than not. She has been watching him for a long time now; ever since the edges of every map faded into nothingness, and the compass rose shriveled against her inquisitive fingers. It is most disturbing that her life doesn't revolve around him, though. As much as she abhors to admit it, she rotates around Jack, heedless in her pursuit as a planet of doom orbiting her wicked moon despite reason and laws of nature.

Pulling a woolen blanket around her shoulders, she stands at the rail. The chill creeps into her bones as the arc of celadon light glows across the starry firmament, writhing in the air that is crisp and mauve with frost. It must be Tia's magical powers what keeps the _Pearl _on course, allowing her to slice through the obsidian water without colliding with any icebergs. Barbossa lacks imagination to circumnavigate such tall blocks of ice floating upon the surface, and Jack seems too distracted to do anything but curse his compass whenever he thinks no one can hear him. For all his witty remarks, innuendos, and newfound cynicism, Elizabeth knows something is not quite right with him. The kohl smudges, the rum's potency appears to be forgotten, and according to Marty, Jack's indifference to liquor is never a good sign.

"You'll catch your death of cold, love." The quiet whisper of fabric and the clink of shackles bring back memories, and she whirls around, only to see him leaning against the mainmast, his beringed fingers rubbing the chain. He glances at her, his eyes narrowed to two dark slits, pitch black and intense. There ought to be something she could tell him. A lie, perchance a false apology would grant her his forgiveness, and she briefly considers tricking him yet again. She thinks he would believe her if she played her cards right—after all, he has always allowed her to come closer than anyone to unraveling his mysterious nature, failed to escape her pull, as though she were his doom, a black hole luring him to the heart of darkness.

Although the blood seems to freeze in her veins, she lets the blanket fall and sashays toward him. Her lips part like two rosy petals tinged with purple, tongue curls experimentally around the words she means to say, and then she folds her arms around him. She holds him tightly, quivering against him for some unknown reason. Greedy for his warmth, she somehow manages to snake her hand under his coat, vest, and shirt to touch his skin, her icy fingertips melting against the warm curvature of his spine. She whispers to him then, weaves a web of lies and half-truths that is supposed to set everything right between them without exposing her confusing feelings and lack of remorse.

"Don't waste your breath," he hisses suddenly, grabbing a hold of her golden mane and yanking her head back roughly. "I know you don't mean it." He peers at her, his wild gaze sweeping over her face and lingering upon her open mouth. For a moment, she thinks he is going to kiss her, have his way with her right here, and the thought makes the hidden recesses of her body slick and hot with desire. Gazing at him through half-lidded eyes, she digs her nails into his back, secretly relishing the way his muscles ripple under her fingers when she presses her body harder against his.

"You do?" she says, her hot breath turning to steam in the cold air. She knows full well that she can't allow him to get the upper hand, but it is extremely tough to think straight when every hollow of her treacherous body suddenly feels empty, aches for him. "Tell me, Jack, are you a mind reader, by any chance? Perhaps some supernatural powers were bestowed upon you whilst you were _dead_?" she sneers in an attempt to regain control over herself, and he is suddenly rigid in her arms. Avoiding her gaze, he tries to push her away, but to no avail. Determined, she claws at his back, drawing blood, and pulls him even closer, trapping him between her and the mast.

"What do you want, you bloody wench?" His tone is angry, authoritative, but the bulge in his breeches betrays his arousal. A grimace flitting across his features, he stares into space as his heart pounds rapidly against her chest, and she suddenly realizes she indeed has power over him. There have been so many times when she wanted to best him at his own game, and now that she has done it again, a wave of defiance washes over her. Teasing _is_ a game for two. Maybe if she tests his limits, drives him mad with lust only to reject him, he will understand that he can't manipulate her anymore. She knows she will certainly bruise his ego in the process, but she tells herself it doesn't matter—she will teach him a lesson.

The corners of her mouth twitching upward in a sinuous smile of triumph, she grasps his beard braids and pulls him down to brush her nose against his. "I want to have you," she breathes against his lips, her eyes velvet-brown and ember-warm. Her skin is nigh transparent in the sky's iridescent glow, cheeks pale pink and luminous as sea shells. She is shivering, though she is too focused on her task to notice. The wickedness of her plan diffuses in the rapid flow of her blood as she inhales his scent, a mixture of musk, sweat, and something that is distinctly his own.

Asmodeus's smirk stretches across his face as he runs his hands along her upper arms and shoulders. His eyes are dilated and brilliant with lust, but the way he's looking at her suggests that he has already concocted a plan of his own. "Then it's a pity I don't want to take you," he says mischievously, resting his forehead against hers.

"Liar," she blurts out, suddenly adrift as a ship without the mooring line, caught between the romantic notions of a girl and the lustful thoughts of a young woman. Her eyes closing, she can't help thinking their bodies fit together perfectly, as if they were made for each other.

"Traitor," he counters and wraps his arms around her. With nearly inhuman agility, he reverses their positions and pins her against the mast, making her gasp in surprise. "Not so bold anymore, eh?" he says mockingly and parts her legs with his knee. She scowls at him, pushing her bottom lip forward in a pout, as her hands ball into fists. "Poor little Lizzie, you ought to have stayed with your stupidly noble Blacksmith."

"He is brave and good, and I love him," she replies acidly, her body thrumming with anger and desire.

"Ha! Here's where you're wrong, Elizabeth," he bares his teeth in a grin that is both smug and feral as he leans forward, his eyes boring into her, coal black and piercing. "You don't love him," he says against her lips, and her heart freezes in her breast, anger subsiding as quickly as it came.

"What? You—"

Suddenly he slants his mouth across hers and pushes her harder against the mast. She whimpers in pain, but he doesn't seem to care as his hands start wandering along her body. Plundering her mouth with his tongue, he swallows her moans, robs her of breath. When he finally pulls away she gasps for air, her knees wobbly, body shaking and pulsing with want. Her mind is clouded, not quick enough to understand his intention, and before she has the chance to do anything, the click of shackles resounds in the still of the night; the ice-cold metal clasps around her wrist.

"You love only yourself, Bess."

"Jack, what are you doing? You can't be serious!" She looks incredulously at him, trying to seize the lapels of his coat with her free hand, but he swiftly steps away from her and starts heading to his cabin.

"Enjoy your stay on deck, darling."


End file.
